


The Month of August

by Sxd_daes



Series: Months and their meanings [1]
Category: gothic writing - Fandom
Genre: Home Alone, LMAO this took ages to write and i still have so many part to do, She doesn't have a name yet and idk if ill give her one, She is a young british teen in a shitty world, either way i hope you like this weird ficlet, fucked up way of thinking, give She a hug 2020, she's okay she just needs lots of hugs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:41:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26142781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sxd_daes/pseuds/Sxd_daes
Summary: Perhaps the most jovial part of death is that, it's like being, well, it's like being stupid. You don't know you're stupid, the same way you don't know you're dead, but it's complete torture for everyone around you.
Series: Months and their meanings [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1898404
Comments: 2





	The Month of August

Perhaps the most jovial part of being dead is that, it's like, well, it's like being stupid. You don't know you're stupid, like you don't know you're dead, and it's torture for everyone around you.

That line was written multiple times by her as she sat in a shitty restaurant at midnight. The line covered the first two pages of her notebook and she ripped them out when she left, she chucked them in an empty metal trash can and threw two matches in to burn the pages and turn them to ashes. She didn't go home that night. She took the train actually, all the way to London for one single hour before she returned to her birthplace, she couldn't call it her home anymore so it was just her birthplace. She started to wander the streets until the sun came up, she went back to her house then, the large monstrosity lay empty before her. It wasn’t right, sure she hated living there with her mom but she loved living there by herself when her mom left for days on end. She knew the place inside out by the time she was ten, when she was nine she figured out a way to climb onto the roof, when she was eight she was petrified of everything in that house. Now she’s fifteen and such a shitty writer it makes her cry. Nevertheless she continues up the main staircase until she reaches the top of the house, her bedroom is to the left of her and a massive window is to the right of her. She does this sometimes, when she finds herself walking slower to cross the road she comes to this window and opens it, wide. She won't jump, she never has and never will, she'd just tease herself with the idea before slamming it shut and sitting down at her piano and playing until her fingers seized up and she was in pain. She laughed the pain away, She screamed when the house got too quiet and She cried when she was happy or excited. She was messed up like that.

Now she just sat in a large armchair in the main ground floor room and stared at the wall opposite, she stares until a scream bubbles in her chest and she closes her eyes to let it out of her, and the scream affects nothing. Well not nothing per say, it kick starts her thinking about the months of the year, January, February, March, April, May, June, July, August, September, October, November, December. One month sticks out to her and she can feel its weight inside her stomach like a rock with butterfly’s painted on it. That's what her mother would describe it as, as much as she convinces herself She is not her mother, they share some traits. But She is much darker than her, much darker than even She knows. But to be honest she knew she was darker than she knew she was and she often lay awake at night questioning if that was a paradox or not and never got anywhere with her answers. She traced the words she wanted to write about August on her arms and legs, before she actually got up and sat at her mother’s writing desk to write down those same words. The pen was ballpoint and chewed at one end as she had nicked it from a shitty hotel along with their bible and batteries from the remote. She had a stack of stolen hotel bibles in her room next to her bed and she read them when she was bored, she wasn’t Christian or Catholic but she just enjoyed reading the bible for fun. She told her Catholic mother to fuck herself when she was scolded for reading the Holy Bible for fun, for a children’s author her mother was pretty shit at caring for her own. She had that a lot in her life, shit. She ate in shitty restaurants, stayed in shitty hotels, slept in shitty positions, and had a shitty mother. She guessed that was on brand considering she was a self appointed asshole.

The thing about The Month of August was that only she would see it that way, the way troubled people would she guessed, but that was okay, she already guessed that would be her demographic. When she was done she squeezed the pen and sunk back into the chair, she could already hear the opening notes of Hooked on a Feeling dance around her head and she swung her foot side to side off the ground and felt the momentum pull her chair to and fro.

The Month of August

August is deep, it's heavy and it's read. It is uncomfortably warm, like wet-warm. It's the feeling of sickness you get when you're hungry and have to wait for food. It's blood and organs and a cavity in a stomach that you created in a fat man. It's pressured and it's sticky. It's a female murderers playground.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't understand what this will turn out to be but I know I have to do all the other months and I'm actually looking forward to it. Lmao, cue the happy hand flaps. No the capital S on some of the 'she's' aren't a typo. I guess yo could see this as a small window into the way I think as She is somewhat based on me but she is also her own person and I love her very much. ENJOY!!


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